In the End
by GreenBeasts
Summary: He always assumed that when Konoha fell, he'd go with it.


It's finally finished. The triumph burning through his veins is hard and bitter, but Sasuke smiles even as the pinwheels slip away and his vision remains washed in red, because it's done. When his legs collapse underneath him he doesn't care.

He lies there for what feels like hours, reveling in the burnt-meat smell of bodies and the feel of ashes underneath his fingers when he drags them over rock.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." The voice is soft, contemplative- a whisper of wind on the silent, smoke-fogged air.

Sasuke tilts his head back and laughs, choked off barks that barely make it past his throat. He can't bring himself to be surprised. When he opens his eyes and turns his head toward the voice there's nothing but darkness, and he wonders if the wetness on his cheeks is from tears or blood. "But it's what you wanted, Aniki. Isn't it?"

The air shifts slightly as the figure pulls his robe in closer, then Sasuke feels the silk of Itachi's sleeve brush against his skin. "No."

"It is," Sasuke insists. There's desperation in his voice, even as he knows it's only a fragment of his own mind turned against him. Before it was Orochimaru, with sibilant hisses and sharp nails on Sasuke's skin, urging him on. It makes sense that now, when it's too late, it'd be Itachi telling him to stop.

"I never wanted this," Itachi murmurs. He loosely wraps his arms around one of his legs, looking down the shattered mountain over the city. Or what had been the city, before Sasuke. "Sometimes I think that the elders were right. We needed to die. It was necessary." He pauses, and looks at Sasuke. "If I'd been strong enough to kill you, Konoha would still be standing."

Sasuke shakes his head in violent negation. Thin strands of black hair cling against the blood, framing his too-pretty face. "Wouldn't," he mumbles. "Wouldn't, wouldn't."

Itachi sighs. "There are things more important than revenge."

"No." It's more plea than anything, broken and soft. There's a stir, then cool hands are brushing against Sasuke's face. He tilts his head back, trying to see through blind eyes, but there's nothing but darkness. Fingertips ghost over the tracks of blood, then touch his temples. When they slip up further Sasuke jerks back suddenly. "No," he repeats, and this time it's negation. "You're not here," he mumbles. "You're dead."

When a hand falls on his shoulder he stops.

"Killing them doesn't make it right," the voice says.

There's a slight pricking sensation, and Sasuke's last thought is that even if it doesn't, it should.

* * *

When he wakes up he's surrounded by a familiar scent. It's something he'd almost forgotten over the years- the faint mixture of softness and steel that had meant Itachi was near. It used to be comforting- the first time he'd been old enough to realize when Itachi was gone on a mission, he'd cried for hours until his mother had tucked him into Itachi's bed. It'd continued until his father found him sleeping there, and the scowl of disapproval had been enough.

He'd thought he'd forgotten it, over the long years where every thought of Itachi made hatred seethe in his bones. Or maybe it was more than he'd wanted to forget it. And then, after, all he'd been able to think about was revenge. He tries to pull away from it, but the scent clings to his skin in folds of silk.

"You're awake." It's calm, toneless, and every muscle in Sasuke's body tenses.

"Itachi is dead."

"Mm." There's a shift in the air. When hands touch his face this time he can barely feel it through the fabric. There's a second of cool, pure chakra- then there's nothing but sharp-edged pain. Sasuke screams and writhes and twists to get away from it, but accomplishes nothing.

When Itachi's hand finally falls away, Sasuke pants for air. He can feel the sweat slicking his skin, making Itachi's robe stick to him, and wonders why he's wearing it. Or why he's hallucinating wearing it. He waits until the waves of nausea pass, then tries to open his eyes. There's nothing. "Am I blind?" he finally asks.

"Yes," Itachi says simply. There are no words of comfort, and somehow, Sasuke feels grateful.

* * *

Time passes in a haze. Sasuke floats, drawn into his body only when the pain is too much for his mind to detach from. In the moments he's aware Sasuke wonders if it can truly be called consciousness when he's haunted by the dream of the brother he killed. It's almost more painful like this- Itachi's gentle hands and continuing presence more torture than the disappointment in his voice at Sasuke's gift.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asks one day.

The only answer is the cold press of a glass against his lips. Sasuke opens his mouth and drinks and drinks and drinks, and the cold water slipping down his throat feels like redemption.

* * *

He starts to wonder if it might be real when he's recovered enough to track the passing of days.

"Am I already dead?" he asks. Sasuke thinks he can almost see Itachi's shrug, then fingertips are at his temples again. The coolness lasts longer this time, like mint running along nerve-endings, tingling and sweet and just this side of painful. "Is that why you're here?" he presses.

"Madara was never supposed to tell you," is the answer. Itachi stares down at his little brother's too-pale face, then combs his hair back from his face. It's long enough to tuck behind his ears, but too short to actually stay there. "He was supposed to let you believe that it was finished. You were supposed to move on."

Sasuke laughs until it dissolves into coughs, hoarse and dragged from his chest. "I was supposed to avenge you."

Itachi's sigh is nothing more than a faint whisper of air, but Sasuke hears it all the same. "And now that you have," Itachi says, "What happens?"

The hard-edged bitterness Sasuke clings to falters. "I don't know," he finally admits.

"Think about it."

When his eyes slip closed, Sasuke does.

* * *

The next time he wakes, Itachi is gone. He waits for what feels like hours, straining every sense for the stir in the air of Itachi stepping closer, but it doesn't come. He drags himself to his feet, swaying against the weakness in an attempt to keep his balance. Somehow it works.

He's thirsty. There's not enough in the glass beside the bed, but by the time he makes it to the door he's too tired to go on. He passes out over the threshold.

When Itachi comes back Sasuke is sullen and silent, turning away from his hands. Finally Itachi sighs.

Sasuke doesn't know if the silence means he's gone.

It continues. Itachi spends hours and sometimes days gone. Sasuke learns to manage. The water pitcher is now always positioned exactly six inches away from the glass. The nightstand doesn't move. Even his sandals are always in the same place.

He manages for three weeks like that, then Itachi comes back one day to find the room destroyed.

He bandages the jagged slices on Sasuke's hands through the silence.

"Do you want to see where I've been?" he asks finally.

Sasuke doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away, and that's enough. Itachi takes his hand as he'd done when Sasuke was a little boy, and Sasuke follows.

When they reach the stone Itachi stops. Sasuke is tense and angry, and it shows on his face in a way he never would've allowed before. "Are we there?"

Itachi says nothing. He guides Sasuke's hand to the stone, rubbing his fingertips against the kanji. He watches as the stubbornness dissolves into frustrated fury at his own inability to see, then- there.

"You've recognized it?"

Sasuke's thumb rubs over one of the fresh carvings, thens slip down until he finds smoother stone. Itachi knows it's a yes. He waits in silence, watching.

"They're dead," Sasuke finally says.

"Yes."

"Because of me."

"Yes."

* * *

Nothing changes after that. He knows that it should- that he should feel something other than dull satisfaction at knowing Konoha is nothing but ashes and remembered names- but he doesn't.

It's a relief, sometimes, to not have that guilt. But neither does he have the relief promised- revenge has done nothing but taken away his purpose.

Itachi is the only constant. The dampness on the air changes as it turns colder, and the pitcher- mended with glue, and Sasuke can feel the cracks when he runs his fingers over the dimpled surface- is never in the same place twice. At first the change is frustrating. It feels like punishment.

The day he finds his way to the stone alone is the day he realizes it's not. Itachi doesn't come- even when Sasuke can no longer feel the sun on his skin or remember how many steps back it is to where he sleeps, and once the resentment burns off he realizes that Itachi is no longer treating him like a child that needs to be watched every second.

He doesn't know what it says that he wishes for the opposite.

* * *

He takes to wearing his brother's robe even when he leaves. It's too long and he hates that he can barely recall where the red clouds fall on the inky black silk, but it seems fitting. After all, he's dressed for his masters before- the hitai-ate for Konoha, the purple rope for Orochimaru.

Sasuke belongs to Itachi in a way that he never belonged to them. Every move he has made has been for his brother, in one way or another.

He misses the simpler days when being Itachi's was as simple as learning to throw a kunai.

It seems to be a place to start, at least.

It takes weeks to learn, following the sound of metal hitting wood and running his hands over roughened bark to feel the X carved deep into the wood. When he finally finds the knife only an inch from the intersection of lines, the triumph he feels is almost enough to overweigh the frustration and exhaustion.

Another three weeks pass before he can manage it regularly. He comes back flushed and proud.

Itachi says nothing.

Sasuke tells himself that the bitter taste rising in his throat isn't disappointment.

* * *

When the nightmares start he isn't surprised. It was only a matter of time.

The shock comes from the color of the eyes that haunt him. He expected the serpentine yellow of Orochimaru's, or the pinwheels of Madara's single eye.

What he gets is blue, bright, brilliant blue. He wakes up shaking.

No matter how hard he scrubs his hands, the slick, wet feeling won't come off.

He eventually realizes that the smell of copper is from his own blood.

He can't bring himself to care.

* * *

Itachi says nothing as he bandages Sasuke's hands. Sometimes Sasuke wonders if he's forgotten how to speak, or if he deliberately hoards his words, handing them out only sparingly, filled with the knowledge that the sound of his voice is all Sasuke has.

But Itachi's hands are infinitely gentle.

When the nightmares come again Itachi is there, and Sasuke burries his face in his shoulder like he did when he was small, dragging in his scent in huge gulps of breath.

It helps, but as he forces back the memories, he wonders if he deserves it.

"Why haven't you left me?"

The only answer is silence.

"They were supposed to protect you," Itachi says one night.

Sasuke stops in the middle of his meal, chop-sticks lying silent against the plate, and turns his head toward his brother.

"What?"

He imagines he can feel Itachi's stare as a physical presence on his skin. There's a rustle of cloth, and cool fingertips brush against the corner of his mouth. He can feel the grain of rice, and part of him resents it- that he could do something as simple as spill food and be unable to see it.

Itachi's fingers slip down to cradle Sasuke's jaw. "They were supposed to keep you safe," he says, low and insistent. "I gave them everything. My lover. My family. My honor. My sword. All I asked in return was that you be allowed to live."

He stopped, but didn't pull away. When Itachi's fingers move down over his throat, for the first time Sasuke wonders. He tells himself that he has a reason for the way his breath hitches; it's only that losing his sight has amplified everything else.

It's the excuse he gives himself, at least.

"It's why I wanted you to hate me," Itachi whispers. "I did everything I could to ensure that. I wanted you to be able to blame me. But in the end, I failed."

"They were the ones-"

"No." Itachi's fingers splay over his lips. "I would have taken you with me," he murmurs. "I should have."

Sasuke stops breathing. Somehow, when Itachi's hand falls, there's nothing he can do but surge forward.

Itachi's lips are cool and smooth beneath his, unmoving and silent. It's like kissing a statue. Sasuke makes a low sound of frustration and fists his hands in Itachi's silken hair. He wonders if Itachi would lie back and let him do this, let Sasuke sate himself on his body as he'd given up so much for him-

Then Itachi's tongue is in his mouth, hot and insistent, and all Sasuke can do is fall open for him.

He thinks, somehow, that this is how it was always meant to be.

* * *

Time passes.

* * *

Sometimes he thinks he can almost see fragments, like the red of light shining through his eyelids.

Part of him wants to ask, but Itachi's silence stops him. He waits until his brother leaves to pull the blindfold away with trembling hands.

There's nothing.

He tries to use the Sharingan more out of frustration than hope. At first, there's nothing but pain, searing through every nerve-ending as punishment for his audacity.

Then, for one brilliant fraction of a heartbeat, he can _see._

When Itachi finds him shaking on the floor, face-down in a puddle of his own vomit, all Sasuke can do is babble that the vase is green.


End file.
